Luchador

Summary

Each week, Gabriel Romero’s drive to Sunday mass takes him past “El Angel,” the golden statue at the heart of Mexico City that haunts his memories and inspires his future. Spurred by the memory of his parents, Gabriel is drawn to the secretive world of lucha libre, where wrestling, performance art and big business collide.

Under the conflicting mentorships of one of lucha libre’s famed gay exótico wrestlers and an ambitious young luchador whose star is on the rise, Gabriel must choose between traditions which ground him but may limit his future, and the lure of sex and success that may compromise his independence. Surrounded by a makeshift family of wrestlers, Gabriel charts a course to balance ambition, sexuality and faith to find the future that may have been destined for him since childhood.

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Luchador - Erin Finnegan

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Gabriel.

1

2006: Mexico City

They braved the stutter-stop congestion of Paseo de la Reforma, using it to cut through the park past the museums and onward north, hoping to beat the afternoon crowds that would later close the avenue. It was the same every Sunday. Gabriel, slumped in the backseat of his godparents’ Mercedes Benz, ticked down the moments until the golden landmark triggered his weekly pre-mass sacrament. He drifted off into a silent world of his own, watching the posh glass and steel boutiques of the chic boulevard not quite push the city’s aging mansions out of their way.

In moments, they would pass Monumento a la Independencia, the golden angel of victory most people simply called El Ángel. It reached high above the center of the traffic circle mere blocks from the cathedral where he worshipped with his aunt and uncle each weekend—even though there were a dozen churches between their home in Lomas de Chapultepec and the Zócalo.

The statue could be seen from kilometers away along the wide, tree-lined avenue. Each week as they drew closer, he watched for it, a golden beacon in an azure sky.

Out of habit, he pressed his fingers to his shirt seeking the outline of a small gold cross that clung to the thin chain hanging below his collarbone. Whether it was in prayer or reflection or lingering grief, he couldn’t really say, but after close to eight years of making this pilgrimage, he knew that this moment belonged, each and every time, to his parents.

From the first time he had passed the landmark, he had thought of them. He had little doubt that his father would have joined the throngs of partying fútbol fans at El Ángel’s base after a Team Mexico win. But it was his mother he most closely identified with the towering statue with its unfurled wings reaching skyward. Mexico City had been her childhood home, the city where she was raised, nurtured, and immersed in culture—and that she ultimately abandoned for love.

She had often told Gabriel about the city, about the museums and their storied collections. She had studied them all and was committed to making sure that her son shared her passion, or at least her respect, for their cultural legacy.

Someday, we’ll go back and we’ll take you to the Museo de Arte Popular, where I met your father, she would say. She told him about the city’s monuments, the colorful plazas, and the centuries-old cathedral that stood sentry over the civic core, surviving countless attacks and earthquakes.

It’s the city’s soul, she had said. But El Ángel is its heart.

He’d heard it all, dozens of times, the tour guide-like recounting of her home and the story of two recent college graduates who had stumbled into each other’s arms on the museum steps. And if she were still alive he would probably be tired of it, maybe even resent it.

The details of Gabriel’s Arizona childhood were becoming dust, the day-to-day little more than a blur, but some moments stuck to his memories like glue: the craft projects with his mother, the Saturday afternoon wrestling matches–on television and on the couch between father and son. His strongest memory was sensory, a feeling of freedom that he hadn’t recognized as a child, but now suspected he lacked.

He had learned of his parents’ deaths from a county children and family services worker and the cop at her side. Gabriel had overheard the young officer break the news of the shootout between rival gangs—bikers and drug dealers, he had said—that his parents were caught between as they exited a cafe. The woman explained that his relatives were being contacted, but he would remain a ward of the court until they arrived in Arizona.

She had been considerably more vague when she sat Gabriel down in private to break the news. At age ten, he hadn’t known what a ward of the court was, but he suspected that he didn’t want to be one.

He had just wanted to go home.

Instead, he’d moved into a new home more than a thousand miles and a border away.

At the graveside, his aunt had reached for his hand and found the worry doll he was clutching, a trinket his mother had made for him. She had tucked it back into his pocket and told him he was safe. He would soon have a new life, in a new country, with the predictable security he had never known as a child.

I made a promise when you were baptized, mijo. I promised that I would care for you, protect you. You’re going to come live with us now, in the city where your mamá grew up.

I don’t need to be protected, Gabriel had protested.

He still felt that way—especially once a week, as he passed by El Ángel.

As they reached the traffic circle, he shut his eyes and pressed his fingers to his heart.

Sitting alongside his aunt and uncle in Catedral Metropolitana de México, Gabriel shifted his weight, said his Hail Marys, and knelt in prayer. It was the same every Sunday. The rigid formalities of the weekly services didn’t really connect with him, but it was a reasonably fair trade. Gabriel believed in God—a god, at least—even if he occasionally questioned its motives. He probably spent as much time in the pews thinking about schoolwork or fútbol standings as he did reflecting on the merits of good versus evil, but he knew that he owed a lifelong debt to the family that had taken him in and made him one of their own, so he made their Sunday traditions his own. Of course, he didn’t have much choice in the matter.

From the moment they had assumed responsibility for Gabriel’s upbringing, his aunt and uncle had created a regimen designed to set him on a path to success. In their book, that included a formal education, sports, and a devotion to the church.

They had signed Gabriel up with a small legion of tutors and extracurricular activities to keep his brain and body active. His afternoons had been packed with study groups, music lessons, and fútbol practice. And as he’d prepared to graduate, they had announced that they would pay for his college education, securing his future.

You’ll be more competitive this way, his uncle had said.

By eighteen, he had taken the requisite tests and been accepted into the university, and the boredom of waiting for one academic life to end and another to begin had led to wandering, exploring his world in ways he had never before considered. It was simple enough after school, drifting through the city under the guise of an afternoon study session or team practice.

Weekends were more challenging, especially Sundays, when his ninos kept him close during their weekly ritual.

Like on every Sunday, he drifted as the congregation around him worshipped and he savored the one moment in his hectic pre-college schedule that allowed him to be bored, sitting in a five hundred-year-old cathedral, atoning for his sins. The entire routine felt almost mechanical: Worship at the cathedral, eat brunch at a hotel on the square, and race the taxis and delivery vans down the Paseo before it was shut down for cyclists and pedestrians.

This time, Gabriel lingered outside the hotel lobby. Tía Alma, do you mind if I stay behind?

Meeting someone? she asked. She smiled as if to suggest that she was in on a secret.

Is there a girl? his uncle asked. ¿Tienes novia?

Gabriel grimaced, settling his eye on his Uncle Fernando with a drop-dead stare he hoped would land like a punch. This was nothing new. No, there most definitely was not a girl. And his uncle knew it.

Fernando shrugged, as if it didn’t hurt to ask, yet again. Gabriel had grown numb to it. He couldn’t call it exactly harmless, but there were bigger things to worry about than an uncle who hadn’t quite grown into the world around him. Besides, even if his uncle was as subtle as a sledgehammer and not quite ready to accept the fact that girls were not a part of his romantic agenda, Gabriel had developed a fondness for the man who had taken him into his home and acted like a surrogate father, even if he would never truly be one.

I’m supposed to meet some friends from school later. Our history teacher has a reputation for last-minute tests, so we thought we’d meet at the museum and maybe have a study session after, he said.

It’s a school night, she said. She straightened his collar and tapped his cheek. Fine, but don’t be late.

I promise, Gabriel said, kissing her cheek. Alli nos vemos.

Pulling off his tie and shoving it into his jacket pocket, he watched them walk toward the garage, then checked to make sure they were truly gone before he doubled back across the Zócalo. He dodged in and out of the crowds in the sunny spring afternoon: the families walking after church; the tourists milling about; the street merchants hawking toys, rosaries, and Virgin Mary statuettes.

Alma would never stop him from spending an afternoon among the museum’s antiquities. His gravest concern was that she’d want to tag along. And that would be a problem, because Gabriel had an entirely different plan in mind.

As willing as she was to set Gabriel loose amidst the treasures of ancient Mexico, he knew that Alma was far less enthusiastic about him spending an afternoon screaming along with a few thousand rowdy fans at the Arena México, cheering the enmascarados of the Sunday lucha libre matinee.

He had wanted to sneak out and watch the matches for a while, but his aunt didn’t like the neighborhood and his uncle thought it a waste of time and money. Why go there when you can watch it on TV? But why couldn’t it be seen as part of an extended curriculum, he reasoned. The arena was his classroom, even if his godparents didn’t see it that way.

His parents would have understood. As much as his mother disapproved of him jumping off the family room couch, she valued the symbolism of the lucha match, the ritualistic battle of good versus evil that played out each week in the arenas of the Federal District, the event tents of the suburbs, and the outdoor fighting rings where dirt substituted for floor mats in the border towns. His father simply loved the showy sport and encouraged his son to do likewise.

They would have considered this moment of freedom a part of his education, of this Gabriel was certain.

No hay mal que por bien no venga, he muttered under his breath. There’s no bad in your life that doesn’t open a door to something good.

So he told a lie—a tiny lie, really, a metirita. Harmless.

He rode the subway toward the park, where he planned to meet a friend near the museums. Tall, dark, lean—and in Gabriel’s mind, at least, refined—Eduardo had been his study partner and friend in whom he found mutual skills in mathematics and similar tastes in sports, books, and music.

Gabriel wasn’t sure if it was love, but it was certainly a solid crush—his first, not counting the hot history teacher from his first year at la preparatoria. Whether Eduardo shared his feelings was uncertain, but Gabriel hoped to puzzle it out during a late afternoon matinee at Arena México.

They had been in Eduardo’s room studying, and had turned on the TV during a break when a raucous voiceover of a lucha libre commercial consumed the room. Eduardo rushed for the remote control but kept watching the commercial, and Gabriel saw an opening. He heard it in the announcer’s blaring voice: something social, not a moment designed to get him into law school or med school, but a date that would get him a boyfriend, or possibly help to finally get him laid. He wanted the former, but he was certainly looking forward to the latter.

Have you ever gone to the arena? Gabriel asked. Eduardo shook his head as he watched clips of luchadores launching themselves over the ring and into the crowd. They have Sunday matinees. We should go.

Gabriel considered everything strategically: a spring day, past the crush of college applications and exams; the clothes—a jacket, conservative enough for church but hiding slim-fit slacks and a trim dress shirt that showed off a body toned by hours of fútbol practice; the arena—a raucous safe zone of sweat, beer, and testosterone. If he had misjudged Eduardo’s cues, he knew that he could at least write the day off as a shared adventure.

He took his time, catching the Metro and walking to a café outside the park, their designated meeting point. It was only a few blocks from the subway stop, but the pulse of adrenaline willed his feet to move faster than necessary through the weekend crowds. He paused at shop windows from time-to-time, feigning interest in the displays while he checked his reflection. Should he loosen another button on his shirt, maybe ruffle his hair a little? Hoping for an effortless look, he raked his fingers through his dark brown waves, then walked on until he spotted Eduardo standing on a street corner.

Eduardo wore snug jeans and a polo shirt and sat against a low wall as he thumbed at his phone. Gabriel’s pulse quickened, and his thoughts spiraled. He settled his breath and reminded himself: Even if this turns out to be nothing, at least there’s lucha libre.

But I hope it’s something.

Gabriel? How long have you been standing there?

Gabriel snapped himself out of his reverie long enough to say hello and flag a cab to take them to the arena—a move generally considered perilous on a congested Sunday in the city. The driver veered suddenly, turning right from the left-hand lane. Gabriel hurtled across the backseat, landing against Eduardo. They lingered as the cab stabilized, and the heat of a flush crept up Gabriel’s neck. He was about to speak when the taxi screeched to a halt outside the arena, and Eduardo pulled away, reaching a little too rapidly for his wallet.

They purchased tickets close enough to the ring to feel as though they were a part of the action, yet far enough back that they didn’t risk having a luchador land in their laps—or getting caught in the fan cams for the television broadcast. Still, Gabriel wanted to stay close enough to the ring to feel the vibration of a takedown echo deep in his bones.

They sat in the thick of a section of fans of an estrella, a star—a former rudo, a dirty player who had seen the light and was trying to change his ways—El Diablo Azul. To their left, two suited men wore reproductions of The Blue Devil’s pastel blue and silver mask, likely purchased from one of the street carts outside the arena. To their right, a group of laughing women wore blue T-shirts that read ¡SÁLVAME, DIABLO AZUL! and illuminated silver devil-horn headbands, made to resemble The Blue Devil’s mask.

I’ve never understood The Blue Devil, Eduardo said. The devils, they’re all rudos. They should be black or red. But baby blue? Baby blue is not a color for a devil. Besides, The Blue Demon was one of the greats—a super estrella. Why do we need a Blue Devil if we’ve already had The Blue Demon?

It’s not the first time there have been luchadores with similar names, Gabriel said. Think how many máscaras there have been: Mil Máscaras, Máscara Segrada, Máscara Magica…

Gabriel looked around the arena, now filling with fans of The Blue Devil.

And the Devil, he’s conflicted. I think that’s why people love him, he said, sipping his beer. "He used to be a rudo, but he’s trying to change his ways. He’s a técnico now, or at least he wants to be. Sometimes he slips. But when he’s bad, it’s in the service of good. I bet someday he’ll change some more so that he always follows the rules, and then they’ll change his name again. Then he’ll be a técnico."

Gabriel elbowed Eduardo, directing his attention to the women next to him, who had begun to chant, ¡Diablo! ¡Diablo! ¡Diablo!

Considering his fan base, it may be a while.

The announcer appeared amid clouds of stage smoke, and the crowd erupted in cheers. He was well known from years of televised lucha broadcasts and his signature introductions, which extended the words so the crowd could join in. Dressed in his gray sharkskin suit and black T-shirt, he was escorted down a smoke-shrouded ramp to the ring by two bikini-clad ring girls, and as he took center stage, another one handed him a microphone.

¡Bienvenidos a la Iglesia de la Lucha Libre! he announced, his standard Sunday introduction. The crowd was his willing congregation and game to worship at the church of lucha.

A boisterous back-and-forth raised the collective energy of nearly five-thousand fans before the start of the first bout and fueled the decibel level as well as the arena’s beer sales.

What are we here for? the announcer asked, pointing to the highest reaches of the packed arena.

Like a drunken assembly, the crowd bellowed back, ¡Luuuuuuuuu-chaaaaa!

¿Luuuuuuu-chaaaaa? he prompted again, pointing his microphone toward the fans, encouraging their echo.

Gabriel and Eduardo laughed and shouted along with the crowd. ¡Luuuuuuuu-chaaaa!

Once the cheers became an organized chant, the announcer called the first bout: a trios team match between three up-and-coming rudos and a relatively unknown técnico paired with two minis, Más y Menos. The dwarf brothers, sponsored by an auto parts company, wore black-and-white costumes that resembled spark plugs. Playing the role of clowns, they were a staple of the Sunday lucha libre circuit.

Longtime fan favorites, they were now into their forties and often found themselves pitted against unknown heavyweight luchadores who played straight men to the brothers’ popular routine.

They’re actually really good. Look at how fast they are, how they control the flow of the bout, Gabriel said.

Eduardo laughed. It’s staged. Of course they do.

With the three-round match tied, the minis put their skills on display. Aided by the young técnico, Más climbed up the ropes, then ran along the top line until he reached a corner turnbuckle. His partner surged at his opponent’s legs, taking him down—a cue for Más to leap, hurling his tiny body into the air, catching the opponent’s partner in a slam that resulted in a pileup of bodies on the mat. A quick three-count by the official, and the match was over, called, to the crowd’s delight, in favor of the técnicos.

The minis do more than buy time for people to get seated. They represent some of the great symbols of lucha libre: the little man overcoming the odds, the powerless beating the powerful. And they’re really athletic. Más is a great aerialist.

Eduardo shook his head and looked at him with narrowed eyes, as if he were trying to read Gabriel’s thoughts. It was a good thing he couldn’t.

You take this really seriously, don’t you?

Gabriel held Eduardo’s gaze, then shrugged. I love lucha libre.

The crowd grew rowdier as the wrestlers were announced: a match between El Grande, a thug-like rudo dressed head-to-toe in studded black Lycra and pleather, and the new técnico in blue and silver that so many in the crowd had come to watch. The women sitting alongside Gabriel began their chant anew. ¡Diablo! ¡Diablo! ¡Diablo!

It’s his first time facing his old teammate, Gabriel said, as El Grande leapt over the ropes and into the ring. Arms folded across his thick chest, he stood near the center and glowered upstage, toward the ramp from which the técnico would emerge.

These guys don’t like each other. We may see some blood today, Gabriel said.

The spotlights focused on the Devil, led by another set of ring girls dressed to coordinate with his baby blue ensemble. He was tall and powerful, yet more sleekly built than his thick-framed opponent. Like other wrestlers, he kept his skin waxed smooth, rubbed to a sheen with oil before the match.

The Blue Devil marched to the ring, indifferent to the flash, glitz, and grinding hips. He didn’t play to the crowd or dance to the beat of the music on the sound system. Focused on his former wrestling partner, he looked straight ahead, to the ring.

The announcer reignited the crowd with his introduction, raising a swell of cheers that echoed like a chorus of boos.

Gabriel shook his head, concentrating on the ring, considering the stage where this drama was about to play out.

That’s all determined by his actions, Gabriel said. Play the devil, be the devil. He’s in the middle of transforming himself. He’s trying to be the hero, but he can’t until the crowd accepts him as one. If he plays by the rules, then someday he will be accepted as the técnico he is trying to be.

The Blue Devil entered the ring without flare or pretense, stripping off his silver cape while staring his former partner down, biding time until the referee called him over for the ritualistic checking of his hands and feet and to meet El Grande face-to-face.

He’s fighting his own demons, Gabriel said. He has to sacrifice… but he also has to win in order to move on.

The batalla started slowly, the two luchadores slapping at each other, sizing up their opponent. A takedown by one would be parried by a twitch or a roll, bringing the referee’s three count to a halt.